
Class _:E3Aii^A 



COPVRUUIT i)i-:fosi 



Rosaline Fay 



A Southern Idyl 



Copyright, 1906, by John Dwyer 



Brother Ambrose 



LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
TwoCoDies ReceivwJ 

JUN 16 1906 

£\, Copyright tntrv . 
CLASS .'q, MC. ■■■ 



5PY bT 






::!= Press of = 
Louis F. Dow Co. 
Saint Paul, Minn. 



PART FIRST 



'■pi OWN in the land where the flowers are censers 

Irl ^"^ ^^^ °^ *^^ breezes are acolyte boys, 

'^ Swinging their censers and flinging the fragrance 

wherever they flit on their fond fairy feet, 
Down where all hearts are as warm as the roses that 

redden the flowery riots of June, 
Under the moon of the merry May heavens a baby 

girl came from the land of the Blest; 
Came when the lips of the cannon were speaking 

the thunderous phrasing of fire and shell; 
Came when the highways and byways and hedges, the 

meadows and cottonfields over the land 
Sprinkled had been by the High Priest of Battle with 

hyssop branch dipped in the blood of the best. 
Warm on its lips the last kiss of its father, his footfalls 

were echoing down the lone street. 
Set was his face where the breath of the cannon hung 

heavy and grey o*er the dry, fallow fields. 
Set for the pallet and tent of the soldier, where patriots 

pray in the language of deeds. 



That was the last of him, — last of the father; — his 

shadow ne'er fell on the threshold again. 
Sleeping, he slept on the mountains of Georgia, the 

stars peeping down at the blood on his breast. 
Hushed were the bold, brazen lips of the cannon, and 

broken forever the rank and the file; 
Tattered and bloody, the bonnie blue banner was 

laid in the grave o'er the hearts of its dead. 
Hundreds came back from the battles and prisons, all 

wasted and wounded and scarred to the bone; 
Thousands remained with the sod for their tenting, 

awaiting the final reveille to sound. 



Scarce had the embers of tent-fires blackened, than 

God sent the Angel of Vengeance abroad. 
Run, O ye maidens whose lovers have perished, and 

run, O ye mothers! whose husbands are dead! 
Fly, little children, whose fathers and brothers are 

sleeping the sleep that the swift bullet brought! 
Speed away! Speed away! Speed while ye can or may! 

Fever, the grim Yellow Fever has come. 
Spectre of Evil! O Grim Yellow Fever! Away with your 

ominous vomit of black! 



Off with your jaundicing, skeleton fingers! Away with the 

glare that delirium brings! 
War, with his sabres and bullets and battles, took pity 

on women and children at least! 
Heartless One! Grim Sulphur Devil, I call you, O dread 

Yellow Fever! no pity have you! 
Stretching his arms like a skeleton demon, he held the 

lone mother close, close to his breast; 
Pressing his fleshless mouth hard to her ruby lips, — 

kissing, he poisoned her heart with the plague. 
Out *mid the roses and lilies the little maid romp'd in 

her merriment, played in her glee. 
Down by the flower-beds out through the gate-way, the 

mother was borne, and the nurse followed next, 
Left in the lilies amid the red roses, the sweet little 

orphan-girl, Rosaline Fay. 



Perished a neighboring household beside her, all, all, 
save the mother, were dead in a week. 

Surfeiting sorrow in deep desolation, she snatched 
to her bosom maid Rosaline Fay; 

Took her to love her, a pattern of beauty, a something 
to fill up the void in her heart. 



Then she arose from her sorrowing hearthstone, she 

the kind neighbor, the gentle Mathilde; 
Down to the courts took the fair little Rosaline, told how 

had perished her kindred and friends; 
Brought cdl the papers bespeaking her fortune and 

pleaded in guardianship named she might be. 
Then went the order that made her the guardian, yea, 

made her, the gentle soul, keeper in trust. 
Home then with wondering eyes took she the maiden 

the dear little elf-child, the sweet Rosaline, 
Gave up her life to the growth of the flower the grim 

Yellow Fever had dashed at her feet. 
She would be mother, and tutor, companion, and 

playmate, — yea, everything best to the child; 



Straight then departing she left the great city, went 

down to a village all quiet and quaint, 
Down to a village and into a mansion where first she 

had heard the lone mocking-bird sing. 
Seating herself where a muscodine screening kept softly 

the balcony clear of the sun, 
Spake she, the gentle, to Rosaline Fay, while the 

wondering-eyed maiden stared into her face; 



"Heaven has left me alone in the wide world, has sent 

the Dark Angel to gather my flowers; 
Battle and fever the wild work accomplished, — my 

husband, my children, my kindred are gone. 
Mother and father of yours they have perished; and you 

are alone, — in the wide world alone! 
You, little cherub, I take to my bosom and all that I have 

when I pass shall be yours. 
Now, dainty maiden, I ask but a little from you in return 

for the love that I give: 
Try but to love me; — I love you already, — and call me 

your mother from henceforth and on." 
Then did the pretty eyes, swimming in liquid, look love 

that a human pen never can tell. 
Through the red rosy lips floated a music half spoken, 

half whispered, that came from the soul: 
"Mother" and lo! the light arms were uplifted, and 

clasped round the neck of the gentle Mathilde; 
Lips that had muttered it lay on the kindly lips, 

tighter and tighter she clung to her neck; — 
Clung as her soul would rush out from her body to leap 

to the soul of the kindly Mathilde. 
Down the soft cheeks rolled the dews of two sorrows, 

the lone childless mother's, — the motherless child's; — 



Clasping each other in half-spasm fashion, their spirits 

rushed into afi&nity there. 
"Ask,** spake the mother, "whatever you wish, and 

yours, little daughter, at once shall it be.*' 
"'Mother,'* the little lips quivered and quivered, "Oh! 

teach me to be just as kind as are you." 



Thus to the mansion upon the black bayou, she came, 

the sweet maiden, the child Rosaline, 
Thus to the heart of the woman who sorrowed, the 

child of affection, sweet Rosaline came. 
Soft passed the May months and she was eleven; beneath 

the sweet teacher how kind she had grown! 
Never a wish, nor a thought but for others, who did 

her a favor by taking her deeds. 
Beautiful soul in a beautiful body, a wonder of gentleness, 

sweetness and grace. 
Bright was her hsdr, — like the gold of the yellow moon, 

flowing adown as a waterfall flows; 
Splinters, and needles, and streaks of gold gleaming 

a-through it, and up it, and down when she moved. 
Tinted her face like the wheat when it's ripened and 

waits for the sickle to lay it alow. 



Liquid her eyes like blue agates in water, her lips 

perfect bows that a cupid might use. 
Dressed in a changing silk, standing in sunlight, a fairy 

incarnate some poet had dreamed. 
Beautiful soul in a beautiful body, she knew not her 

sweetness so good was her heart. 



Down to the village church passed she each morning for 

now was the Cure preparing the young; 
Making them ready for childhood's sweet moment 

when Jesus should first lay His Heart on their breasts. 
Soon neared the day; and the joy of the mother had 

brought whitest silks from the city for her. 
Gently she asked for the simplest of garments; for 

why should she shine far above all the rest. 
Others would feel all the sting of their poverty.. "Please, 

let me be like my classmates for once." 
Gladder than ever and proud of her daughter, the 

mother bent down to the wish of the child; 
Bade her to follow the bent of her wishes, to do with 

the silks whatsoever she would. 
Scarce had the words from her lips half been uttered, 

when down to the village the riches were sent. 



Bright beamed the morning; — the best of all mornings 
that ever is met in the days of a child. 

Wonder of wonders! the sick widow's daughter is 
beaming in richest of satins and silks! 

Marvel of marvels! the rich lady's daughter angelic 
she seemeth in plainest of gowns! 



Onward and onward, the earth wheeling onward had 

seven times circled its path round the sun. 
Eighteen had come to the meek little maiden that 

played in the roses and lilies of May. 
All of the promise of personal beauty had ripened and 

blown to a fulness secure. 
Fair as the fairest, and tall as a lily; a lady-like lady, 

the sweet Rosaline. 
Looked she like one that had stepped from the pages 

that tell of the tournaments where fought the Cid. 
Stately she moved as a star in the Heavens and 

modesty mantled her face and her form. 
Often the mansion now throbbed to the music when 

twinkling toes stepped to a measured tattoo. 
Often the sons and the daughters of planters were 

gathered therein for an evening of mirth. 



Never a soul ever passed from her presence but holier 

felt for the smile on her face. 
Matrons and maidens, the young men and aged, not 

one could account for the spell that she worked. 
Hidden in earth are the roots of the rosebush, and they 

are the source of the rose's perfume. 
Right was the heart of the stately young maiden. — 

the fountain, the spring of her sweet, simple grace. 
Piety kept her as pure as a lily, and prayer made her 

spirit as warm as a rose. 



PART SECOND 



^ft^ OSALINE now often sat *neath a plum tree, 
hJ% a-crooning and singing old melodies sweet; 

^^^ Roses beside her; her feet in the mosses; a 

calico gown and sun-bonnet long 
Shading her face from the sun's stolen kisses, 

a-waiting and watching for Victor to come. 
There 'neath the plum tree that grew by the gateway, — 

ah! there they had made to each other their troth. 
Victor had wealth, and his acres were thousands; as 

black as the bayou each foot of his land. 
Proud was his father who boasted a lineage, reaching 

far back to King Phillip the Good. 
Never a stain in the stream of his people and never a 

blot on a deed he had done. 
Locked in the armour of honor and justice, his sturdy 

soul strong in the sense of its right. 
High set his frosty head; fearless his wrinkled brow; 

God did he worship first, honor came next. 
Deep had the father, his strong sense of honor, deep 

chiseled, deep cut in the soul of his son; 



Firm had the father set strong in his bosom a passionate 
love for his family stream. 



Victor still kept his bethrothal a secret; far down in his 

heart's deepest chamber it lay, 
Biding the time for the calmest unfolding, for, 

anxious and nervous, he doubted assent- 
She, at his bidding, kept locked in her bosom the troth 

they had made, *neath the moon of the May. 
Sweeter their secret grew, sweeter, more honeyed, for 

God alone knew, only God and themselves. 
Flowers were fresher and daylight was brighter, and 

all the wide world in a honey-dew steeped. 
Angels they heard in the rustle of branches, the beautiful 

world was an Eden to them. 
"Listen," one day spake the mother to Rosaline; 

"Listen, my child, to the things that I say. 
Never were you half so glad with the wide world, 

as lately youVe grown with this poor earth of ours. 
Brighter your eye than the gleam of the bayou; and 

redder your cheeks than a ripe mellon's heart. 
Scarcely a horse patters loud on the road-way, you flush 

as you rush to the window to peep. 



Tell me, my pretty one, tell me, my Rosaline, 

what is the meaning my child of all this?" 
Red grew her face as her head she hung lowly, — 

a huge double rose overgrown on its stem, — 
Tried hard to smile in the midst of confusion, then broke 

into tears at the futile attempt. 
Startled, the mother her arms wound around her, and 

held on her shoulder the wet, weeping face. 
Soothing, the voice that had wakened such sorrow, spoke 

words of regret and a kiss between each. 
Tell me, my pretty one, tell me, my Rosaline, 

I know what it is; won't you trust me, my child? 
Cupid has caught you! I'm sure that's the trouble, 

and Victor Le Grand is the choice of your heart!" 
Laughing, she laughed in the midst of her weeping, 

confessed the soft truth, "but," she said, "'tis the half." 
Harder and louder she sobbed in her crying; at last some 

control of her weeping she gained. 
Told all the truth, that her promise was given, and 

Victor Le Grand was her husband to be. 
"Then," quoth the mother, "may praise be to heaven! my 

prayer has been heard in its measure complete." 
Poured then the tears of the joy of two spirits, 

the soul of the maiden in whirligig flew; 



Joy in the sunlight and shadows and blossoms, and 
all the wide world in a Sea of Joy steeped. 



Oft to the city where bendeth the river that shapeth 

the crescent about the old town, 
Oft to the city long known as the "Crescent," 

intent on affairs went the lover Le Grand. 
There did he go to a friend of his father's; they romped 

in their childhood for many a day; — 
Often he went, for it savored of homelife; the curly 

haired daughters were sweet and refined. 
Laura, the eldest, had known him since boyhood; long, 

long was she smitten with love for the boy; 
Wondered why never she gained on his feelings, though 

lavish indeed of each womanly art. 
"Gain him I must!" she had sworn in her bosom, 

"my father is poor; but Le Grand is so rich. 
Nothing shall stop me — not all of the wide world for 

Victor Le Grand shall be husband of mine!" 
How she cajoled him! Oh, how she could flatter; she 

loved every flower he mentioned as fair; 
Artfully striving to gain from his heart but a look 

or a smile to encourage her suit. 



What was the matter! she wondered and wondered, for 

out from the depth of his fathomless heart 
Came not an echo to answer her shouting, though 

hung o*er its brink she was calling his name! 
Out from his pocket once fell a sealed letter, and writ 

on its face was, "Miss Rosaline Fay." 
Quick Laura stooped from the floor to pick it and asked, 

as she handed it, who was the maid. 
"Only a lady friend down on the bayou," — but Laura 

had sounded his fathomless heart! 



Curly-haired Laura that night in her chamber sat 

rocking and musing, and thinking of him. 
All of his feelings full current was sweeping away to 

another she never had seen. 
What could she do that the stream of his passion 

might set to her heart and away from this girl! 
"What can I do?" and she patted her little foot light on 

the rug by the fireplace near. 
Oh, but to rouse him! to sour his love-sweets! 

to fill all his soul with the acid of hate! 
"Who is this lady? and whence comes this maiden? 

this Rosaline Fay on the bayou below? 



"Who is her father and who is her mother? 

1*11 ask him tomorrow before he departs. 
Hating, I hate her with all of my being; she stands 

between me and the king of my soul! 
Out from mj' path she must hasten away, or her shadow 

will darken my soul evermore!" 
Flashing, her eyes glimmered bright in the darkness; 

she shook all her curls, and she set her white teeth. 
Desperate, daring, her turbulent being grew brazen in 

purpose, grew steeled in resolve. 



Came the next evening, a warm tepid evening, — and 

Victor Le Grand called to say his good-bye. 
Laura was gayest, so airy and fairy like, — chiding and 

joking him althrough the eve. 
Standing, he stood; it was time he was going; and 

kindly he bade to each kinder farewell. 
Down to the gate with him Laura would go; 

so she walked at his side o'er the path violet-fringed. 
Then, as a parting word, laughing she muttered; 

"Today I was told of a lady who lives 
Down on the bayou, — a Rosaline Fay — and the blood 

of a negro inhabits her veins!" 



Startled, young Victor stood breathless and speechless! 

His wide open eyes stared her full in the face. 
\"What said you, Laura? I heard you not truly; there's 
\ negro bood flowing in Rosaline's veins!" 
*^ure'* said the maiden, who caught in his voice tone, 

Lthe measure complete of the blow she had struck; 
e" said the maiden and laughed a light treble, 
"There's negro blood flowing in Rosaline's veins." 
"Heaven forbid it!" half murmered, half muttered, then 

grasped he his forehead, like one dizzy grown. 
Said nothing more as in half-drunken fashion he turned 
from her presence and passed down the street. 



Stood she a moment, all trembling and watching him, 

leaning full forward as held she the gate; 
Saw him go staggering, swaggering onward, like one 

on the edge of the Sea of Deep Sleep; 
Slammed she the iron gate; wheeled on her dainty heel; 

ran up the violet walk, up to the house. 
Pattered her little feet, tapping each wooden step; 

turning, she reached the retreat of her room. 
Closed she the portal and quick shot the lock-tongue; 

all trembling and fluttering and chuckling with glee. 



Raised by the joy of a triumph unlooked for, she clapped 
her pink palms, as she danced in her mirth. 

What of the lie she told! what of the harm she did! 
what of the lady she wronged by her lie! 

Little cared she, for she snapped her frail fingers, and 
crushed out the thought as you'd crush a grey gnat. 



Rose the great golden robed, grand in its gleaming pride, 

gilding the tree-tops and flashing the dew. 
Waking the birds in old Houma to music and warming 

the black bayou's wrinkleless face. 
Smiled Rosaline; and the sky it was bluer, the sun 

he was brighter than ever before. 
Beaming he beamed on the steed of bright steel, with its 

red heart of fire and its breath of white steam, 
Speeding along o'er the thin threads of iron that led 

from the Crescent to old Houma town. 
Watched she the clock and she knew all the stopping 

points; now he was there; then in this place, and that. 
Bright eyes and rosy cheeks they were in Houma; 

but pure mind and laughing heart rode on the train, 
Rode on the train, until fancy made plain the sharp 

clickety, clackety, clickety, clack, — 



Rode till she felt she was swinging and swaying upon the 

red cushions within the long car. 
Oh! how the hours dragged! morning would never pass! 

"Noon and the train they will never reach here." 
Down to the plum tree that grew by the gateway, she 

went, there to wait as the time grew apace. 
There in the hush of the village noon stillness, 

the grasshopper grated his musicless tune. 
Shaking the leaves of the weeds on the roadside, as 

leaping he sprang on the dank, scraggy things; 
Then in the hush of the village noon stillness, afar came 

the sound of the whistle long blown! 
Rising amidst and above the live oaks, she could see the 

white smoke of the steel breasted steed, 
Bearing her Victor a-back from the city, a-back to the 

quiet of old Houma town. 



Turned she about and she sped to the gallery, stood on 
the steps looking where bends the road. 

Stood she in white, with a ribbon of blue on her long 
flowing hair, and blue bows on her dress. 

Stood she expectant and watched through the foliage, 
watched for the coming of Victor Le Grand. 



Then, as she saw his light sulky come speeding, she 

started a-down to the gate once again, 
Picking a red glory rose for a token to greet him, 

the handsome young planter, she loved. 
Reached she the gate as the trotter stood still; as he 

stepped from the sulky, she opened the gate. 
Full was the flood of her joy at the moment; she dropped 

her red rose as she grasped both his hands. 
He, for a moment, forgot his wild heartache beneath 

the angelical light of her eyes. 
Holy the joy that was writ in her features; — he felt 

that her being was heaven's, — not his. 
Then, like an avalanche, rushed on his spirit the word 

that had shaken his soul to its roots; 
Groaning, his agonized spirit outgroaned, 'neath the 

full crushing thought as it pressed on his heart. 
Speechless he stood; — in a stupor he stood; — not a word 

could he speak, not a sign could he make! 
Startled, — amazed, at his dull heavy eye, to a bench 

by the plum-tree she led him away; 
Up to the house for her mother she started; but grasped 

he her wrist, and his head gave her nay; 
Docily she at his motion obeyed; and beside him, took 

seat on a bench 'neath the plum. 



Then, with an effort that shook all his being, he turned 
and he spake to her slowly and low: 



"Proud is my father who boasts of a lineage, boasts 

of descent from King Phillip the Good! 
Pure as the sweet distillations of evening the red stream 

of life in our bosoms that flows. 
All of that life-stream, from all of the ages, is flowing 

this moment in my purple veins. 
Never the shadow of evil has crossed it. Now tell 

me, my lady, oh! whence do you come?" 
Then, in the marvelous tones of sweet candor, she told 

that she knew not and never could know; 
Told the strange story her mother had told her, the war 

and the fever that left her alone. 
"Then," spake young Victor, "mean rumor hath sprinkled 

a negro's poor blood in the blood of your heart!" 
Silent a moment, her angel soul rose to the height of its 

grandeur and made she reply: 
"Victor, I bow to the pure stream of life-blood 

imtainted that flows from King Phillip the Good; 
So do I love you, that not for the universe would I 

dare clash with the least wish of yours. 



If, ere the morning, I cannot plain show you from 

whence comes the blood in my poor purple veins, 
Free shall you be from the promise you've made me, and 

I all alone shall walk down to my grave. 
Go, now, and seek some repose and forget me; 

tomorrow will find me prepared for the worst. 
Freedom is yours if I fail to unravel the dark tangled 

skein of my ancestral line!" 
Trembling, his frame shook; he spake not a word; 

but he pressed to his lips the soft lily-white hand; 
Rising, he dashed away; sprang to his sulky seat, 

drove like a demon in chase of a soul. 



Slowly she rose in her gown of pure white, and she 

sought the retreat of her own quiet room; 
V/ent to her cabinet, took all the papers there, — waxen 

and yellow and stained by the years; 
Sat by the window, forgot all the sunshine, forgot 

all the grasshoppers' chirrups and songs. 
Read o'er the papers, and read and re-read them, 

but never a hint could she find, — ne'er a word, — 
Never a hint to betoken her lineage whence came her 

father, her mother nor theirs. 



Then to the kindly Mathilde straight the maiden, the 

gentle, the saintly, the sweet Rosaline, 
Praying, once more she reveal her the story of all 

that she knew of her parents and her. 
Slowly the wrinkled old lady began, and retold the sad 

story so often rehearsed. 
Dark and as black as the depths of the ocean, the 

mystery still unrevealed did remain. 



Rose then the maiden and under a live oak she sat 

in the shadow and white grew her face, — 
White as the soft snowy tint of her garment, with 

ribbons of blue all down the neat front. 
Musing and brooding! — ah! never before had a cloud 

thrown its shadow across her bright path! 
Then she arose, and her sunbonnet taking, she set her 

fair face for the church in the town. 
Where on her knees, like a penitent sinner, before 

the Madonna she knelt her to pray. 
Prayed, — for it seemed that the bitterest nightfall was 

rounding a day that had wakened in joy; 
Prayed, — for the earth had no comfort to give her and 

heaven alone could endow her with strength; 



Prayed, — for the light of her life was departing, 

the blackest of gloom spreading thick o*er her soul. 
Bent down her head and her heart, as accepting the 

clay of dead hopes that had late breathed so strong. 
Felt the full weight of the woe on her soul. And 

the Angels of God whispered comfort to her! 
Then she arose, and a-down the lone roadway o'er which 

in the morning so happy she looked, 
Faced for her home: And the bright sun was sinking, 

the nightbirds prepsiring their nocturnes to sing. 



Oh, the long weary night! Up came the mellow moon. 

Hung her soft yellow light over all things. 
Rosaline sat as it rose in the east; and its mild, 

softened beams kissed the folds of her dress, 
Rosaline sat when it sank in the west, and the first streak 

of dawn put a tint on the sky. 
Rising, she passed down the dewy damp road; and her 

face was as pale as the lily she plucked; 
Entered the church; and her lily she placed at the 

foot of the shrine of the Mother of Love. 
Prayed but for strength to sustain her lone heart in 

the moment of agony drawing so near. 



Passed from the portal, and made for the mansion 

where Victor Le Grand was the master supreme. 



Him did she find in a grove of pecan trees, a-seated and 

sad with his dog at his feet. 
Straight to him made she, her heart never failing. He 

rose when he saw the white figure approach; 
Rushed all the blood to his face; and his impulse was 

down on his knees in a reverent awe. 
Heavens! how fair she was! holiness dripping at every 

slov/ step and from every white fold! 
Queenly! — majestic! — earth never knew being sublime 

in such beauty as Rosaline Fay. 
Reached him, she put on his shoulders her hands, 

and the white chalky face set its eyes on the red. 
Then like the beat of a bell that is tolling, so measuredly 

fell the sad v/ords from her lips: 



"Victor, I cannot say nay to the charge that the blood 

of a negro empurples my veins. 
War -plague and fever laid low in the earth the sweet 

beings that gave me the blood in my heart. 



Tangled — nay, broken and lost are the threads of my 

ancestral line; and I know naught of it. 
Not for the world would I dare to betray you, 

nor ask you to wed me beneath this reproach. 
Take then your liberty, free from the promise you 

made *neath the May moon beside the plum tree. 
Take it; and with it I give you this token, I ne'er gave to 

man and I never shall give." 
Moving slight forward she kissed his high forehead; 

then turned on her heel, and she hastened away. 
Staggered, he saw her glide from him and vanish before 

the full weight of the deed she had done 
Fell on his mind; then, the sense of her virtue, 

suspicion all blighted, embittered to gall! 
All of the mystery wrapping her story, a ruse but to hide 

the dark taint in her blood! 
What! she had kissed him! a negress had kissed him! 

the high-blooded son of King Phillip the Good! 
Quick from his pocket his kerchief he snatched and the 

spot where she kissed how he rubbed and he rubbed; 
Dasihed on the ground the white linen and stamped it; 

and pale all his face, and indignant, he passed. 



PART THIRD 




WINGING in golden light, speeding and turning, 
the round rugged earth circled twice the old sun. 
Lightning had blasted and shattered the plum tree 
that heard the bethrothal young Victor had made. 
Weary of Houma, the stately young lady, the fair 

Rosaline set her face for the North. — 
Weary, oh! weary the gentle young creature, departed 

in grief from the home of her youth. 
Came to the beach where the crystalline waters of 

Michigan washes its pebbles and sands. 
There, in a cottage the moods of the sea, — when 

it glasses the stars on its rippleless breast. 
There, when it danced and its surface was freckled 
with patches of grey or of green or of blue, — 
Sat she and studied the moods of old Michigan; — 
else the wide void in her poor, lonely heart* 



Once on a sunny noon, — cool Sabbath sunny noon, — 
by the kind, gentle one, wrinkled Mathilde, 



Sat she regarding old wrinkleless Michigan, glowing 

with golden light, silent and still; — 
When from the east sprang an ominous leaden cloud, — 

Rolling and rumbling it rushed on, advanced, — 
Dragging its length, like a black dismal garment, that 

spread o'er the blue of the heavens its black, 
Hiding the face of the great garish noon sun, and 

flashing the sword of its lightning abroad. 
Airy the wind's rigid fingers uplifted the waves from the 

breast of the sea where they slept. 
Set them all racing and rolling and rumbling and 

curling and churning and splashing the foam; 
Stiff blew the eastern wind; down came the awful rain; 

colder and colder and colder it grew; 
Rattling and clatt'ring the flail of the hail beat a treble 

tattoo on the earth and the sea, 
Then when it passed came the white hissing snow; 

and it filled all the heavens and choked up the sea. 
Oh! it was awful! the day in its prime 'neath the wand 

of the Storm Spectre changed into night! 
Stronger the vnnd blew and blacker each moment grew; 

Came then the darkest night earth had e'er seen. 
Never a star nor a flash of the lightning, but only an 

ebon night filled with the snow. 



Midnight had passed; and the voice of the wind sank 

alow and alow as the morning approached. 
Breaking, the clouds drifted off to the west and 

the sun put a pale purple hue on the east. 
Slowly he rose from the waves of the deep just as 

Rosaline rushed from her cottage snow-crowned, 
Skipped o'er the wide scattered patches of white as 

she breathless made haste to the icy-edged lake. 
There was the deed that the midnight had sheltered! — 

Yea, there was the deed that the Storm King had done! 
Stranded, her nose beaten deep in the sand, 

and all battered and broken a noble ship lay. 
Dead on her deck; on the sand; in the sea;— oh! the 

ice-coated dead were around everywhere! 
Lashed to the rigid and hoar-gleaming mast, with her 

stiff gelid Hps drawn a-back from her teethe 
Eyehds uplifted, the glassy balls set on the fathomless 

blue of the sky over-head. 
Frosted in frozen spray, crusted her garments in stiff 

brittle mail of the gleaming white ice, 
There was the cold frozen form of a woman, her frigid 

hands grasping a casket of gems. 
Terrified, Rosaline gazed on the figure that moved when 

the hulk swayed to right or to left! 



Saw not the ice-covered jewels that flashed, or 

the eardrops and necklaces, bracelets and rings, — 
Saw but the glare of the sun on the ice, and the dead 

on the shore, and the dead on the deck. 
Turning about, rushed she back to her cottage, and sent 

the alarm to the neighbors around. 
Soon came they all, and they looked for a spark, 

for a gleam of life-light in the breasts of the dead. 
Down in the hulk one they found, and his pulse 

fluttered weak, but it beat and they bore him aloft, — 
Up to the cottage where Rosaline Fay and the gentle 

Mathilde had prepared to attend 
Those in whose veins but a ripple of warmth might 

be flowing and ebbing its slow course along, 
Those whom the searchers might find in the boat. 

And they found only him; and they bore him aloft. 



Stiff to the mast with her jewels upon her, the white, 

frozen face to the clear sky above, 
Bound in the bands of the ice she had perished, 

the wife v/ith the jewels she loved as her life! 
Here in the cottage, the husband unconscious, who 

dowered the wife with the jewels she prized. 



Here in the cottage, as pale as the linen that covered 

\ the pillow his head pressed upon! 
Yon was the curly haired lady who lied to the planter 

\who loved the sweet Rosaline Fay. 
Heije was the planter who loved the sweet Rosaline, 
trusted the liar and took her to wife. 



Day^ followed days; and he raved in his fever; 

le raved and he raved of the days that were gone; 
By Him she sat, the sweet, kindly young lady, and only 

her hand brought the drink to his lips; 
Cooled off the fevered brow, chaffed the hot fevered 

hands, heard him make love to her over again; 
Talk oiF the future as once he had talked ere the 

snake-tongue of Laura had poisoned his heart. 
Then would he break into passionate fury and call 

down the curses of heaven on high. 
"Liar," he'd cry in the storm of his passion, "you lied 

to me, Laura, you lied for my gold! 
Liar, you've wronged her whom heaven meant for me! 

Accursed be your fate wheresoever you roam!" 
Then to her knees would the golden haired lady, quick 

fall as she lifted her pure heart in prayer. 



Praying that heaven might soothe his wild ravings, 

while swelled out to whipcords the veins on his brew. 



So passed a week, and the fever abated; one morning 

he opened his eyes, and amazed, 
Gazed on the face of the liquid eyed lady who sat 

there beside him so patient, so kind! 
Spake not a word only looked in her face; and he looked, 

and he looked, — and he wept as he looked. 
Spake not a word for the long week that followed, but 

looked all his thoughts through his eyes into hers. 
Slowly the poor weakened frame won its strength back 

and Victor Le Grand from his bed then arose. 
Told she to him how the vessel had perished, and 

how she had found the cold corpse of his wife; 
Told how the crew had all died in the water; and he, — 

only he, — lived to tell its sad tale. 



Thrusting his hand in his pocket one morning, he 
drew out a photograph warped and awry, 

Handed it straight to the golden haired lady, 

the saintly young maiden, the sweet Rosaline. 



"Tell me," she said, "how you came by this picture; 

'tis I when a baby of four dainty years; 
Mate of it have I" — but ere she could finish he fell on his 

knees and for pardon he craved,— 
Pardon because of the wrong he had done her that 

morning beneath the pecan trees alone; 
Then he unravelled all, all that had happened, and told 

how he wedded the adder-tongued maid; 
Sailed to the fair realms of flowery France for the 

honeymoon time with the maid he had wed. 
There he had met an old silver haired Cure who lived 

in the Sugar State long e'er the war. 
Told how he left when the mouth of the cannon first 

uttered its groaning of passion and rage, 
Leaving behind him a sister who wedded a friend 

of his youth, ere they left home and France. 



"Six weary years with her letters were sprinkled, and 
then came a day when he heard nothing more. 

Showed me a picture that sister had sent her, 

and asked were there hopes of his meeting with them. 

Saw I the semblance; I knew it full well; for you often 
had shown me your baby-hood type; 



Then did I tell him I knew you, fair angel, and 

promised to lead him to you, happy one; 
Promised myself to your grandeur to bow, to bend down 

my knee when your pardon I craved. 
So were we homeward bound, sailing a-down the lake, 

nearing the port when the storm came apace. 
He, the old Cure, took out from his pocket this 

picture of you and he gave it to me, — 
Gave it when all of the death chill had struck him, and 

perished with prayers to his God for his niece! 
Sleeping, he slept in the ice and the waves; and she, the 

deceiver, the lover of gold. 
Perished before you, a spectacle grim by the bands 

of the frost held aloft to the world! 
Storm that had struck one to death in the sea, and 

the storm that brought death to the one in the mast. 
Cast me before you and dashed me a suppliant, begging 

forgiveness and pity from you. 
Then with a smile that was saintly, angelic, the golden 

haired lady his hands took in hers; 
Spake she, a glamour of holiness flashing and filling 

the glorious blue of her eyes; — 
"Now I can prove that no taint of the negro inhabits 

the veins of your Rosaline Fay! 



Free you are not from the promise you made her 

a-down by the plum tree beneath the May moon/ 



Back to the Southland a-down by the bayou and into 

old Houma town went they again. 
All the world merrily laughing in gladness and 

heaven itself with its gates wide ajar, 
Flooding the air with the thrill of its music and scenting 

the flowers with odors divine, 
Teaching the birds how to warble new madrigals, 

making the black bayou brighten and beam! 
Through the green muscodine saw the old mellow moon 

Victor and Rosaline singing again; 
Heard the sweet harp at her fingers* touch thrilling, — 

the angels of heaven the harmony hummed. 
Ere had that yellow moon wasted in waning, th£in down 

the long dusty road, down in the church, — 
Stood they and uttered the vows they had whispered 

beneath the fair May moon, beside the plum tree! 



FINIS. 



ilUNtetMt^ 



